>>Author's note: stories out of Russia and the US raise the spectre of US unilateral intervention in Iran, and a Russian military response. While war today is often thought to be largely a clash of competing smart weapons, drones, expensive aircraft and legions of armoured vehicles, there is still the role of the infantry. Both the Spetznatz of Russia and the various Airborne and Special Forces units of the west have fought long ugly guerrilla wars with a fanatic enemy who faces mostly the unarmed and helpless, using mines and IED as his primary weapon against conventional troops. In each side is the hunger for a cleaner war, a soldier's war. A foe to meet and prove themselves against, an enemy one could respect. The hills of Iran have seen Aryan chariots, Xenephon and Alexander's Hellenic Hoplites, and armoured Persian Deghans in generations of heroism. They are no stranger to songs of blood and honour.

Aryan mountains,Above Persian plainsOnce trod by heroesOnce, now again

To topple a madmanLest the world burnTwo armies would warOver the corpse of a third

Plains filled with thunderSkies filled with fireWarplanes and armourFight the General’s war

Deep in the mountainsWhere the brave alone treadIs the battle of Captain’sThe swift and the dead

Cream of the AirborneNATO’s own pride,Against the hammer of SpetznatzIn war to the knife

One learned his trade,In the cold Chechen hillsAgainst the planners of BeslanWho children would kill

Afghanistan livesIn the eyes of the otherWho harried the TalibanIn village and mountain

A few hundred menIn the pitiless mountainsBlood of the northSpills on Aryan stone

Ambush and stalkEscape and evadeMasters of warfarePlay out the wolf’s game

Feast for the ravensIn the hero haunted hillsBest and the bravestReap the Battle-Glad’s gild

Battle of equalsOf skill and of prideWar without hatredJust fury and blood

No war stays long privateNow tanks and warplanesWill shatter the balanceAnd carry the day

Commando and SpetznatzEach hears the newsTheir dance will end nowUnder drone, shell, and bomb

Nightfall a white flagHeld left in plain sightStrangely a bottleHeld in his right

Deep in the shadowOf Aryan hillsEnemies toastedTheir courage and skill

When came the dawnThey would finish their warOne last dance of bloodThey all know the score

One of the wierd things about the profession of arms is that we practice turning killing into a safe almost mechanical process. Through skill and technology we seek to be able to kill the enemy without risk, to eliminate his combat power without cost, and if possible, without direct confrontation.

At the same time, those who are willing to suffer, to risk their lives, to endure certain hardship, stress, fear, and possible death and injury to serve their folk are prone to hunger for something more Homeric, and less impersonal. Honour still exists. Every once in a while, once in a long while, the chance comes for something clean, something pure. The use of such meetings of champions is long in the wastebin of history, but it is in hushed tones the survivors of such moments retell the rare chances of such meetings. To have shared such a moment is beyond price. Since war is waste written on the largest scale, to have even a single moment of purity found amidst what is typically a mix of filth and futility is of great worth.